


Famous Last Words

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 10:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12363495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: A person is born with the last words their soulmate will ever speak to them tattooed on their arm. Christine Daaé has words written on both of her arms.





	Famous Last Words

The two sets of words, one set on each arm, were part of the reason her father brought her to France, part of the reason Mamma and the Professor took them in.

Two sets of words. Both written in French, both conjuring different voices.

She used to sit and study the words, imagine the men they might belong to. They were always handsome, always young, always thought her beautiful and that she had the voice of an angel. 

Part of her never wanted to meet them. Wanted to run, as far away as her legs could carry her, and hide. Live in the woods, or among a colony of women, and fend for herself and never seek out her soulmate, either soulmate. She saw too much of her father, tracing the Swedish written on his own arm, and tears dripping onto the words. She never wanted that for herself.

She never wanted that for those other twins of her soul.

_You are a good girl, always such a good girl._

She found him lying in a coffin, in a hole he had dug for himself on the bank of a lake beneath an opera house. And she held his hand, held his weak fingers and brought them to her lips, and he had energy to muster a faint smile as he spoke, and when she answered, tears trickled from his dim eyes.

_I am sorry I did not realise sooner, Erik. I am sorry._

She reached into the coffin, and gently slipped her arm under his shoulders, and raised him so that she was able to cradle him to her chest. He slipped away, minutes later, with her lips pressed to his forehead, and though she considered singing for him the words died in her throat.

The second, the second she finds forty years later, in a little cottage at the foot of a mountain. A fever, burning his skin too hot, each breath a tremendous effort.

_Oh, my poor darling, Christine, the trouble I have put you to._

Two days, two days he lingered afterwards, as she held him and kissed him and cried over him, and tried to lower his fever though she knew it was no good.

 _Just open your eyes again, Raoul. Just open your eyes_.

And he did. His eyes fluttered open, slowly, and a faint smile twitched at his lips, his fingers light against her cheek, and she took his fingers and kissed them, held them to her lips as his eyes slipped closed, and he drew a breath, and another, and another, and then drew no more.

And she rocked him, rocked him as he lay heavy in her arms, rocked him even as his body grew cold, and when at last she lay him down, to send for a priest and a doctor, she kissed both of his hands and folded them over his chest, and silently promised him that she would be all right.

Now she lies alone, and holds both arms over her head, to look at the two sets of words, just to look. And she has no tears left to cry, not anymore, and though she never wanted to hear them, never wanted to hear any of them, she is easy, now, that she has. And she lets her arms fall to the bed beside her, and closes her eyes, and sighs.


End file.
